Ripe

Clay, become dust, sifts through my toes and clings to my naked ankles like a lover's grip. Each particle melds into my body's proof of heat, birthing a fresh layer of me - as if I am becoming. Molten gold pours into the clasping arms of the trees dappling the path making inkblot plays of quarrels and elephants and cars. I pass through and into them, distorting their shadowed forms with my swinging arms and high head.

My sisters and I are on a hunt for rumored blackberries on old man Crispin's drive. Blackberries passed in damp schoolyard whispers from eager mouth to desperate ear. They were rumors only because none would venture across the wasteland that was barren Crispin's peanut field with those gleaming hollow silos keeping sentinel in the distance, marking watch and time with sudden shards of light thrown at just the right frequency to blind you to the world. But the dream of denied sweetness spurs our hearts to brave the beast on an arid August afternoon in Midland City, Alabama.

Broken fruit, known only as "pop-balls," lay scattered amid the leaves and shadows – the spent artillery of a bygone battle between neighborhood boys. Having gathered the noisy fruits, my sisters and I often ambushed the seed-spattered urchins, making them wary of pretty girls evermore. We were warriors then - maidens of old seeking justice from those who would cat-call and make pranks. We are pilgrim-ers now; we navigate lion's lairs and shark-ridden waters to discover missing riches.

I swallow the air in greedy, honeyed gulps. How can anything move in such thick stillness? Even so the world is ripe and pregnant with pollen and crickets and the long awaited berries.

They droop in clusters of such sweet profusion, hanging sleepily in their thorny bed. Darkly shining, their perfume winds silken fingers into my hair and lifts tufts from the nape of my neck – like my mother. I take my fill. I feast until my lips are purple with the juice of these stolen kisses. Thick and fast, the syrup runs down my chin to make fairy bowls in the silken dust between my filthy feet. My hands, like greedy hummingbirds, flit from clump to clump, darting among the thorns to gather the harvest.

Drunk on sun-warmed wine, we do not notice a low rumbling in the east; it is the deep-bellied roar of old man Crispin's ancient dog of a truck. I freeze mid-grab as the rust-dusted grill crests the slight hill I stand upon. My nerveless hands drop the tiny treasures to plop and burst in the powder as my body turns instinctively to the shelter of the shady forest. Relentlessly, Crispin's withering truck advances westwards as we, like a flock of crows, take to the woods, cackling and screeching as such magpies are wont of doing.

Leaping and prancing gazelles, we cease our flight just beyond view of Mr. Crispin. Tucked, our slight bodies nestle against colossal trees as our mischievous faces peek and dart for glimpses of the dreaded man. From my hidden view, I can see his craggy face as he pulls his body from the interior of the aged vehicle.

Lined with sorrows, his face speaks of such buried pains as are unknown to my child-self. Hesitantly and with much care, he creeps to the very spot I had recently vacated. In my shining place, he swallows the sweetness of air puffed from our juicy breath and wilts. His shoulders crumple. He sees our theft and is broken. He bends slowly, with elderly cogs and workings, and retrieves the broken berry. As he returns to his truck, he blows on the split berry as gently as my father, when once he sent air onto my scratches to sooth them.

From my nook, I see his face once more with the sun glinting off the few tears that escape his sterile eyes. His truck roars with a tired and miserable sound, filling my sisters with suppressed laughter and joy at escaping so soundly. The wretched vehicle mopes and limps to the only home known to him, as my sisters fly from their crouches to home. I linger, knowing I have wronged an already aggrieved man. Each step home, the berries lurch and jostle within me, seeking to deepen the sickness I feel in my heart by adding their clamor.

"You must make amends," says my Aunt Joanie. She and I go to the store then, and with my own money, we purchase the loveliest pie ever seen. It is golden and glossy and smells the way Heaven must smell in April. It is blackberry.

In my Aunt's truck, the pie rides between us like a beloved child, with my hands on either side keeping guard for slipping. We make our languid way past the berry patch, where from the height of my window our pilfering is plain, and my heart clutches even as I hide my face. I must stand in front of the man himself and offer this treat, or accept any other punishment he might dole out.

We land in his dusty yard before my mind can completely review the details of the terrors that await me by Mr. Crispin's hand. My Aunt hands me down from the cab and places the pie within my small hands. I must go alone. My mind is no longer in control of my legs as it seems my knees have accomplished an entirely new mode of dancing without my permission. My grubby hand slithers from beneath the pie and darts out to flutter knocks on the weathered door before me and quickly returns to its post. I can see my face dimly reflected in the wavy panes of the door; I am still smeared with the evidence of my crime.

Footsteps begin approaching the door, and my shivering increases. I glance to my Aunt who sternly nods me onward; my head flicks abruptly forward as the door swings in to reveal my once nemesis, victim, and now punisher. I cannot look anywhere but at the pie as my explanation and apology dribbles hesitantly from my numb lips. He is silent as he reaches for the pie, bending his massive frame to the level of my slight height.

His eyes meet mine and I am stunned by the goodly bearish man before me. One massive hand retrieves the dessert as the other chucks me good-naturedly under the chin, and I am rewarded with a nearly toothless smile. My own gapped smile flashes briefly before I am overcome by shyness welling within me. The old man raises himself back to erect and nods once in my Aunt's direction. Her own nod is similarly brief and polite. I clamber back into the cab as my Aunt seats herself behind the wheel, and we make our way home.

I creep slowly across the bench seat unsure of my status; I am rewarded with an up-raised arm welcoming me into the nook of her side. I snuggle there as we pass the berries with the sun setting behind us and the air growing cooler as it flows through the windows.